House call

I turned on the light and woke up the cat

just long enough for it to stretch 

and settle its head over its front paws -

eyes soon closed again.

Whether her ears perked forward,

listening, I could not tell.

The window was dark.

The house quiet.

No sound coming from outside.

There was a ringing in my ears,

I answered it.

No one was on the other end.

Then the refrigerator kicked on.

Thank goodness!

For a moment I had thought 

that I might be all alone.

Well, there was the cat,

now curled up on a pile of clothes

in the purple chair.

And if I opened the study door,

I would likely hear Dawn

softly snoring

snug as a bug

in her blankets.

Then I heard a train,

faint, in the distance.

And now I’m thinking of you

looking over my shoulder.

Why don’t you hang around here with me a little longer 

if you have nothing better to do.

I welcome the company of your memory.

You told me once or twice that you played with words

in the night long ago.

Would you like a glass of water?

There’s a little leftover pie,

apple.

The doctor gave me some news today.

She said nothing of dying.

That’s good news, right?

If I turn off the light in front of me,

I can see out of my window some of the cane,

scalpel leaves, in silhouette 

against the street lighted trees on Mass Street.

You gave me a bagful of root and stem –

that cane - a dozen years ago  –

it must actually be more than that now.

I had to finally put down a metal barrier 

to try to keep the cane out of the tomatoes

last year.

I’m thinking a BLT would be good right about now,

but the season is long over.

What do you say to some pie?

Then I think I’ll see about curling

my nose into my tail.

Quiet.

Morning in a few more hours.